


To Another Year

by izzyb



Series: Scotty's Birthday [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Birthday, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyb/pseuds/izzyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't really like birthdays and plans to spend it alone.  Pavel has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Another Year

**Author's Note:**

> Written because it was Simon Pegg's birthday on Valentine's Day and what a crappy day to have a birthday. So I gave his character, Scotty, a little Pavel but didn't write it in time to post that day. Based on [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/330.html?thread=1322570) at the kink meme. Check out [this picture](http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/.a/6a00d8341c630a53ef01156f6385ba970c-320wi) for Simon Pegg inspiration. Also, for emiime just 'cause.

It's not that Scotty hates birthdays exactly, he just usually forgets about them or dismisses them as unimportant. His family hadn't been much for making a fuss over silly things like growing older. There'd been present or two usually, but no loud parties, ponies, cake or balloons. It didn't help that when he turned sixteen, he decided to celebrate with his friends in the streets of Aberdeen—generally drinking too much liquor from the bottle and making too much noise. Then the clothing started to come off and…

Needless to say, he had spent the evening locked in a juvenile cell, sleeping off a good measure of the bottle of Glenturret single malt Scotch whiskey his best mate, who had far more money than sense, had gifted him for the occasion.

And had decided the next morning, holding his head in his hands and not meeting his mother's eyes as she bailed him out, that it's better to forget about grand birthdays and treat them like any other day.

Years later, he's keeping up his record for low-key celebrations. Today's really just a regular shift—he starts it, as always, double-checking for errors from the night before, smoothing his hand over the _Enterprise_'s protesting core—she really hates it when he leaves for the evening. This turns to yelling at his engineering staff who think it's fucking _funny_ to create little love notes addressed to him from the ship herself. Like she would lower herself to writing bad poetry and allowing it to scroll across the engineering screens as Scotty walks by.

> _Oh Montgomery, my love  
> Never stop touching me the way you do.  
> If you could make it a bit more rough,  
> I would forever be part of your crew._

The poetry is bad enough, but the barely concealed giggles when his console moans a rather feminine and breathy _Scotty_ at him when he tries to enter formulas later that morning are highly irritating. Other than those annoyances, though, there are no big disasters, no explosions around the power sources, no need to comm sickbay and bother the all-too-busy CMO with injury reports.

So it's more than just another day. It's a damn _good_ day. He's proud of his crew and tells them so, ignoring the raised eyebrows at his extraordinarily good mood.

Scotty glances at the chronometer in his office before he leaves, noting that there are only two hours left of his birthday and he has managed to not to have a horrible one. His plan for the rest of the evening is to grab some sandwiches and maybe a drink or two and watch an action film before collapsing on his bed.

Pavel has other ideas.

When Scotty keys in the code to his room, balancing food in one hand and beers in the other (the cooks love him down in the mess and keep bottles of his favorite brands ready for him when he asks—in damned recyclable plastic bottles, but that doesn't hurt the taste any), he almost drops his armload of goodies at the sight of Chekov stretched out on his bed wearing nothing but a kilt. His toned arms are folded behind his head, his lanky too-long legs crossed primly at the ankles and he's sound asleep, snoring softly, which means he's been here a while.

Dropping the all-too necessary supplies on the table in the small sitting room afforded him as Chief Engineer, he opens a beer and sits down to watch him sleep.

It's rare to see the lad so relaxed. Usually he has so much restless energy that he can't help tapping his foot, twirling his fingers, shifting position in his chair, messing with objects in front of him. Sometimes, Scotty gets fed up with the movements and stops them in his own way, usually with a rough kiss while restraining Pavel's arms—a move that leaves them both restless.

So it's an excellent way to end the day—staring at a very attractive ensign sleeping in his bed. Once he finishes his beer, he's going to do something about the slow arousal building at the thought of turning the lad on his stomach and flipping up that kilt to see that perfect arse.

Okay, now he's hard. He shifts in the chair and takes another swallow of beer. Pavel knew exactly what he was doing when he sneaked into his room and laid down on his bed wearing that damned kilt. He's even gotten the Scott tartan right—which impresses the hell out of him. Scotty just isn't sure if he knows what day it is. Though it's possible, what with his affinity for sneaking his way around the ship's computer. Not to wreak havoc like his engineering crew, but to find out…things.

He chugs the rest of his beer and stands up to throw it in the recycler. He loses his shirt on the way to the bed and kneels on the side wearing only black uniform trousers, deciding to wake Pavel up with soft strokes to his curls and a thumb on his lower lip.

"Scott—you're back," he slurs sleepily at the touch, turning towards him and sucking the thumb into his mouth. Pavel's tongue swirls around the digit and Scotty almost groans aloud.

"Aye. And you're here. Practically naked." He stops talking and leaned down to kiss him, framing Pavel's face with his hands and turning the kiss rougher when Chekov bites down on his lower lip. "Like that, eh?" he asks, trapping Pavel's arms above his head and covering him, thrusting his lower body against him and pushing apart his bare legs with his trouser-covered ones.

"Yes—was waiting for you. Wanted to—_nngh_—just like that—surprise you, but got tired."

"Oh, you surprised me all right. Maybe we should stop for a bit so that I can thoroughly appreciate the sight of you." He leans back and grins down at him. Pavel's legs are spread, kilt flipped up to reveal his hard cock and his face was flushed from both arousal and warmth from sleep.

"Do that for too long and you will sleep alone tonight," Pavel warns. Yes, he is waking up quite nicely. His legs wrap around Scotty's hips and he leans up from his restrained position to kiss the shit out of him, muttering more threats in his ear as he breaks to suck bruises on his neck, muscles flexing as he strains to meet him.

"I want to fuck you like this, all flushed from sleep and ready for me. Wait, wait—fuck—the kilt? Where'd you get it?"

"You don't get to know," Pavel says and squirms under him, whining at the loss of Scotty's lips and the lack of action. "Waited too long—hurry up."

Scotty laughs as Pavel thrusts up again. I don't even have my trousers off yet, lad. Gimme a minute." He threads his hands through Pavel's curls for a second and then sighs and reluctantly leaves the bed, heading to the drawer of his small side table to grab the necessary supplies.

Pavel barely gives him time to get rid of his trousers before he pulls him to bed and straddles him, looking pleased, his chest rising and falling with his deep breathing, rubbing his cheek against Scotty's and murmuring "need you, Montgomery Scott, need you inside me."

He shudders out a breath. "Let me get on top then."

Chekov obediently rolls over onto his back, spreading his legs and rucking the kilt back up to rest on his stomach. He moans when Scotty prepares him, one finger at a time. He's at two when Pavel's hand makes a deathgrip on his wrist and he says, "stop teasing."

He's earnest, eyes shooting daggers at him when Scotty grins, but he keeps his fingers inside him until he feels Chekov's muscles relax. "Not teasing anymore," he says and puts words to action by donning a condom and pushing in slowly, feeling him flutter and adjust around him and groan and do some more muttering of that filthy mouth and gripping with his fingers.

He doesn't move yet, instead bottoms out and stills, bracing himself above Pavel. "I want to know—why the kilt?" He rubs his thumb over Pavel's lower lip and feels the sting as he bites him, but not too hard. "What brought this on? Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"If I answer, will you move?" He's almost petulant, fighting to move Scotty himself by squirming under him.

"Yes," Scotty says simply, thrusting in light movements meant to drive them both crazy.

"You haven't been to my quarters lately—I know it's hard with my roommate there—"

"Sulu," Scotty agrees, kissing Pavel hard, possessively. He had thought for years that Pavel and Sulu were a _thing_—everyone had—even though they had both vehemently denied it. But then, Kirk and McCoy say they are just _friends_ as well.

"Da. I wanted to…get your attention and keep it without interruptions—now will you move your fucking ass?" More Russian exclamations follow—and they don't sound like _love you_. He knows how to say that, at least.

So he laughs at Chekov's mix of languages, kissing him again and then holding up Pavel's legs to thrust deeply enough that they both exhale their held breaths and cling together more tightly. The room is silent now except for muffled groans and the movements of the bed. Scotty takes pity on Pavel near the end and releases his hold on his arms to stroke him; the combination of a firm touch and "need to come now, lad" whispered in his ear making him arch into him and spill over his chest.

Scotty stills as he gives Pavel time to recover, but then he feels hands down his face, his back, over his arse, whispering more Russian phrases to him, and this time Scotty thinks they mean something more tender. He starts thrusting hard, not stopping for anything and comes inside him, shuddering in Pavel's arms.

"Was it a good one?" Pavel murmurs later, stroking Scotty's hair as he lays his head on his stomach, wrecked.

"Birthday, you mean?" he asks. "Fuck it, Chekov, I usually don't care for them. But this one was good—knew you would know." He yawns widely and wraps an arm around Pavel's hips in time to hear his stomach growl. Or maybe both their stomachs growl. He's too tired to tell.

"Do you have cake?" Pavel asks idly, dancing his fingers down his back now. He really cannot sit still for the life of him.

"Even better, lad. Who are you talking to here? I have sandwiches. Oh, and drinks!" He sits up and stretches. "Get your scrawny kilted arse over her and join me."

He mutters under his breath and Scotty hears something about "damned Scotsmen" and "not scrawny." He hands him a beer, ignoring his look of distaste at the label. "Drink it. It's my birthday."

"You acknowledge it now?"

"Aye." It's convenient.

They lift their beers, clink them together and drink to another year of life and Scotty knows it's going to be a great one.


End file.
